The Yellow Brick Road In Their Hearts
by everyone'ssister
Summary: Sam is nearly outdone by the monster of the week and in the process Dean steps in to save him...putting not only himself, but Sam's whole world in danger. Dean is a silent sufferer; can Sam get to him in time? Prompt!fic hurt!dean protective!sam
1. Chapter 1

This is for HBKDEANRKO who prompted me as follows:

I've been searching high and low for stories where Dean saves Sam's life but Sam gets furious about it and in his anger he doesn't realize that Dean was hurt badly. Dean tries to take care of himself but can't manage it and by the time Sam realizes what happened he finds Dean unresponsive and thinks he's dead.

Thx girl for reviewing me and prompting me, the support means a lot! This will be a 2-shot or maybe three, hope u like...

THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD IN THEIR HEARTS

Chapter 1.

"You could have died!" Sam yells at Dean where they stand beside the impala outside the bunker, where they've just recently returned from their latest hunt.

"You stupid son of a bitch!" He rounds off giving a shove to Dean's chest.

Dean winces, goes a little whiter and leans heavily on the car. Sam, who is currently seeing red, doesn't notice.

"You don't get to do that!" Sam yells, stalking away from Dean and pacing by the impala in an effort to keep his hands off his brother.

"You don't get to just throw caution to the wind and sacrifice yourself just because I'm in danger, that's not the way it works Dean!"

Dean says nothing and Sam places his hands on his hips, staring at him wrathfully.

"You got nothing? Nothing to say?" He asks, a little jeeringly, but mostly in disbelief.

"What do you want me to say, Sam?" Dean asks, spreading his hands and sighing. "That I'm sorry? That I won't do it again?"

Sam clenches his jaw and walks back towards him.

"...it's a dangerous gig, Sam, there's nothing more to say..." Dean explains, soothingly.

Before the words are even finished coming out of his mouth, Sam's fist has connected with his jaw and he's sprawled in the frozen Kansas mud.

And SONUVABITCH! That hurts his side, he has no idea what he has done to that mother. (Well, there was that Wendigo, but other than that...)

"Nobody said you get to give your life for mine, Dean." Sam grounds out, not helping his brother right himself, so Dean grabs hold of Baby's door handle and pulls himself up leaning heavily on her.

They star each other for a tension filled moment until Sam looks away.

"Gimme the keys," he says, not asking, and holding out his hand.

Dean reaches into his pocket without hesitation and places the keys to the impala in his little brother's outstretched palm.

"Where're you going?" He asks, a little slurred through his numb mouth. Sam hands him the riddle box that holds the bunker key in it.

"Out," Sam grunts in response, climbs into the impala, cranks Dean's baby and leaves him standing alone in the gathering dusk and fading tail lights.

Dean Winchester sighs, and wipes a hand over his eyes in hopes of removing some of the blurriness there. He shuffles painfully down the few steps to the bunker's entrance and inserts the key and unlocks the door. He uses his body weight to swing the door open and sighs in relief as it closes behind him and the safety of the bunker surrounds him.

He looks belligerently at the stairs. Why? He asks, glancing up (roughly towards heaven) and starts the trek downward. He's never hated the ornate spiral staircase until now. A rigid hand supports him on the rail as he descends with jerky movements. By the time he's in the library taking a seat he's feeling like puking his entire stomach up. God, what is wrong with him? He hadn't felt this bad since...a long time.

He leans forward in his chair to untie his boots. The white hot, lightening pain shooting up his left side catches him totally unawares. The room spins before him and Dean finds himself on his knees in the floor, swallowing his lunch back down before it makes an unscheduled reappearance. He sits back up, and the fact that the lightheadedness is so bad he loses knowledge of where he is exactly tells him something is off.

He gingerly looks down his body and immediately notices a familiar darkness seeping into his t-shirt and the waist of his jeans.

"What the hell?" He whispers, raising a trembling hand to the dampness. It comes away slick and...red.

Shit.

Dean lets his eyes close and his head goes to rest against the edge of the table. So that's what all the agony is about? He had thought the Wendigo had got him, but what with the freezing cold and Sam bitching like it was his birthday Dean hadn't really felt anything, or paid any attention until now...it's getting plenty of attention now, Dean thinks.

Dean isn't a fool. He knows the signs his body is giving him is that he's running out of time. Sweating clammily, not really coherent...his mind is definitely wandering a little. Like right now he's wondering why the men of letters didn't install an elevator for their wounded? But the he remembers they were just glorified librarians...SO not like him and Sam.

Oh yeah, Sam. He's pissed.

And not momentarily at home. So Dean needed to take care of his little problem himself.

He spreads a hand flat on the surface of the table and then the other, and hoists himself to his feet. The pain at the sudden movement is so intense that he doubles over nearly slamming his face into the wood.

He breathes deep, eyes screwed shut and tries to think calmly. He needs to...who is he kidding? He FREAKING NEEDS SAM RIGHT NOW!

You want Sam, he tell himself, you don't need him, you want him. And you can't have him right now, so pull it together.

"I need to get to my room," he tells himself, mystified as to why his voice cracks awkwardly. He NEEDS bandages and pain meds right now.

Sam wraps his long fingers around the impala's steering wheel so tightly he's sure there will be hand prints there afterwards. The window is rolled down and the bitter winter wind is catching him full in the face, air whizzing past him, buzzing in his ears, detaching him as the world races by in a blur. The adrenaline is finally gone. But the sickening sight is still etched in his mind...

(Dean fires his flare gun into empty air a moment before the Wendigo appears in front of Sam and tosses him into a tree a couple of yards away. The Wendigo approaches him as Dean desperately tries to reload his flare gun, but his frozen fingers fumble and won't obey him

Sam mentally swears at him for forcing Sam to take the only pair of gloves they had. They do him no good now as the Wendigo raises his clawed hand to slit Sam's throat.

Sam's world slows as he hears Dean's yell, and he watches as his big brother throws his body between Sam and the cannabillistic terror. The blow falls on Dean and he lands against a tree about ten feet away and hits the ground with a sickening, dull thump...and stays down. Without even thinking about it Sam jerks his own flare gun from the waist of his jeans and empties it into the Wendigo, which goes up in smelly smoke.

Sam skids to his knees beside his brother and gently turns him from his stomach so his head rests in Sam's lap. And god, for a second Sam thought he was gone. Thought he had lost Dean to some stupid Wendigo. Then Dean's eyes fly open and he sits up, coughing painfully, looking around for the monster.

"We got him," he smiles unconcerned at Sam.)

Tears blur Sam's vision the more he gets that tight feeling in his chest. That fear, that helplessness...he knows it all to well.

And he can't stand it, has to do something about it. So he reaches out to Dean, tries to make him see, somehow understand what Sam goes through. How that feeling of utter and complete defeat and loneliness crushes him and destroys him,

And guilt, god, so much guilt.

Dean does it for him, every time. And you would think that Sam would get it, would be more safe so Dean would be safe. But no, it never stopped, it just went on and on. Sam died a little every time, and Dean got wounded some way or another.

And sometimes Sam tried to bring it an end. Tried to somehow show Dean that his life is worth something. That he shouldn't just throw it away in some Wendigo hunt just because Sam dropped his guard. That he could be so much more, could be more than just Sam's big brother.

But Dean didn't want anything else. THAT was all he cared about. Saving Sam, being with him. And they didn't have follow in that order either. If Dean couldn't save Sam he cared nothing for his life, he'd rather die with Sam and stay by his side be it only in their grave.

So Sam angrily swept the frozen tears form his face and rolled up the window. He took some deep, calming breaths, and let his foot ease off the gas pedal as he realized he was speeding down back road at somewhere over 100mph.

He sighs and in another desperate attempt to calm himself he leans forward and pushes play on the cassette player.

Bob Seger softly fills the car. And Sam has no idea when Dean inserted this tape or even when he last played it, but it seems even when Dean is away from him he's looking after Sam. Dean's presence is almost tangible with Bob Seger crooning to him over the speakers. Sam finds it soothing to say the least.

He presses the impala's breaks and brings them to a brutal stop on the side of the dark highway. He rests his forehead on the wheel and breathes deep, getting lungfuls of familiar scented air...Dean and the Impala. And really Sam couldn't tell you the difference between the two, maybe just that the impala had a little more metallic scent to her, where as with Dean there was something alive...you could tell there was life pumping through his veins.

Dean's alive and safe at home, Sam tells himself reassuringly. He is alive and breathing, and probably pissed as anything...he smiles fondly at that picture. Dean sitting at the map table nursing a bit of whiskey, waiting for Sam to get home so he can kick his ass.

We could be having supper and a few beers right now, Sam thought, if it wasn't for me.

And now he's thinking back to their fight. God, he can be such an ass sometimes. And realizes there wasn't that much yelling...honestly he thought there had been a lot more that that...had just expected that there would have been. He'd driven away in such a rage he hadn't really thought about it. Actually all the yelling had come from...him.

Dean had only said a few words, hadn't tried to hit him back, had willingly given him the keys.

Sam started, lifting his head form the wheel. Damnit; something was not right. That was REALLY not like Dean.

Shit, Sam thought regretfully. Maybe he'd just finally pushed Dean too far. Maybe Dean was just too tired, sore and cold to deal with Sam's shit anymore.

Sam remembers the blank expression Dean wore as he handed over the impala's keys...sick enough of him to lose his Baby just to get rid of his sorry ass.

Now Sam feels nauseas.

No, he thinks, firmly. I'm not sacrificing us over something so stupid. I can fix this, he determines. He revs Baby up, "Let's go home." He tells her.

Dean is soaking wet with sweat by the time he makes it to his bedroom, and he left a pretty grisly trail behind him. He left tell tale signs along the walls, he leaves a bloody stripe on his wall as he switches on the light. Tears leap, burning to his eyes as he strips coat and shirt off his shoulders.

He hasn't noticed until now, but his left sleeve is in tatters, a testimony to some pretty nasty scratches beneath. The cloth is stuck dried to the gouges and as he sloppily tries to rid himself of the bloody and dirt-coated clothes the material rips away with a sickening, squelching sound.

Blood immediately wells up out of the ripped open wounds and Dean bites his lip so hard he tastes the metallic of blood. He growls, driving the scream back down his throat as he watches the blood run down his arm and dribble to the floor from his elbow.

He grits his teeth with the pain and effort as he uses every reachable piece of furniture to help him get to the bathroom. He leaves another bloody clue as he turns on the light. He finally breathes deep, leaning against the vanity of the sink with both hands pressed flat to the cool surface. Willing the pain away, waiting for his stomach to settle, forcing the panic back into its box.

He watches detached as the blood runs from his arm to the vanity, where it pools and then falls to collect on the floor.

He sighs and glances at his reflection in the mirror...so not helping.

His skin is whiter than most ghosts he's put to rest, dark bags are already appearing underneath them. He wasn't even aware of the shivers wracking through his frame until he saw them reflected in the mirror. He lifts a shaking hand to raise his t-shirt to get a look at the burning wounds he's seen so much proof of.

His fingers tremble violently as they go to lightly caress over the three long, messy furrows in his side. They look as if they had been ripped there, not cut. They are so deep the skin is sagging down from them in bloody tatters.

Seeing the wounds didn't help much. Dean was a tried and seasoned warrior, but seeing and experiencing that much pain and carnage was not affecting him well. Especially when he was already emotionally off kilter...in other words he REALLY THE FREAK WANTED SAM NOW.

He empties his stomach into the sink, and Dean is fairly certain throwing up is not supposed to hurt so bad your vision whites out. After he can see again, for chrissakes, he reaches with his right hand to grab his phone. He freezes. Dean pats down his thighs and feels his back pockets and groans out loud. He doesn't have his phone...it's in his coat pocket.

He drags his hand over his face. God, his luck. But he needed to call Sam, this was a lot more serious than he had initially thought.

I can do this, he tell himself. Just make it to the bedroom FLOOR. I mean c'mon, Dean, it's the frickin' floor. You can do it.

He knows it's going to be a lot harder than it sounds as soon as he lifts one foot towards the door and only saves himself from face planting into the wall when his other knee buckles by catching himself against the wall with both hands. That's all it takes. The sudden movement, the pressure of his weight takes Dean down. Down to his knees and elbows swallowing back more vomit at the overwhelming pain. He doesn't even hear his own strangled scream of agony.

Dean fights for consciousness, but this thing is not going his way. Blood is pooling warm underneath him, and god, it's cold. His shivering an uncomfortable amount, and even that small movement is enough to make the small room spin and fade in a white mist.

He slams his eyes shut and presses his hot forehead to the cool bathroom floor. The pain shooting through his system is overriding everything else, making every other thought incoherent, numbing Dean's senses to nonexistent.

Dean is now something he rarely is...afraid. This is not right, not supposed to hurt this much. The pain is not supposed to make him throw up and cower on the bathroom floor.

In the midst of all this unbelievable pain and the darkness edging in on his vision Dean can only see Sam.

He can't intelligently shape any other thought over the mountains and seas of agony.

Sam. In his mind there is light around his little brother, like a yellow brick road right to salvation.

I need you, he thinks, screaming out as the darkness finally wins and rushes to him. Need you to come home now, Sammy!

As Sam drives (a little more responsibly) towards the bunker he begins to doubt himself. He had really been a dick, he'd hit Dean, for chrissakes, what had been wrong with him? He runs a stressful hand down his face.

He might need a little help convincing Dean to make up. Like maybe pie, beer...scratch that, some nice liqueur. There was an ABC store in town and a decent bakery. He smiles to himself, he is going to rock at this make up thing.

Sam pulls up in front of the ABC store the lights making him blink a few times. He opens the door and makes sure he's go his wallet, he swing his legs out and gets out.

And then he feels it. Something sticky that gives just a little resistance as he stands. There are many things Sam Winchester has had to worry about in his life, but sitting in something in his brother's immaculate car is not one of them.

He leans back into the car and he can see a dark stain in the flood lights. His hand meets with the tacky substance and he holds up his fingers to the light where he can see. Dark, sickly red.

Blood.

On Dean's seat.

Sam's heart stops and he shakes his head in denial.

No, no, no. Dean was not hurt, he'd been fine all the way back home...

This is what was wrong, Sam's gut tell him, this is what made you turn the car around.

He stressfully runs fingers through his hair as he grabs his cellphone and speed dials Dean. He waits thought the rings, pacing in front of the store.

"Damnit," he hisses, as it goes to Dean's voicemail.

"Dean, I know you're pissed man, but I found blood in the car, are you alright? Call me back."

He hangs up and climbs back into the impala and peels out of the parking lot, breaking about every driver's safety law.

He's roughly twenty minutes from the bunker, he calculates as he pushes the car a little harder. Still ten minutes out he tries Dean again, only to get his voicemail.

"Dean, look I'm sorry. Don't be a dick. I'm worried man, call me back."

He hangs up and throws the phone in the seat beside him in frustration. That fear and helplessness is back, dragging Sam down into the darkness of panic and doubt. His breath is faster than it should be, less of his attention is on the road and more of it on the savage blow from the Wendigo Dean had taken for him. You have no time to panic, he tells himself as he nearly misses a turn and the impala does herself credit making it.

And then like a stream of light in Sam's dark, jumbled and panicked mind comes the clear, beautiful thought that Dean is going to fight to stay with him. That whatever is going down on Dean's end he's not leaving Sam without a struggle.

Sam takes a couple of deep breaths and Dean is once again Sam's clarity. The thought that Dean is fighting for him too calms Sam to no end. It's like a yellow brick road to confidence and hope in the midst of his panic and fear.

"I'm coming Dean, just hold on."

tbc...

PLEASE REVIEW

thank you


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2.

Sam almost faints with relief; the bunker door is unlocked and he slips in. All is silent. Everything is perfectly in place that he can see from up top of the staircase. There are no signs of Dean having any trouble.

"Dean?" He calls out, descending the stairs. Silence is all that answers him, he crosses the map room and walks up the steps into the library. One chair is crooked, Sam walks towards it.

"Dean?" He calls again, looking around. It's unlike Dean to leave anything messy in the bunker. He walks right up to the chair and then he sees the floor before it. Blood. A handprint smeared on the wood, and two on the table.

"Dean!" He yells, going down the stairs towards Dean's room. He's immediately assured he's going in the right direction by blood trails smeared along the wall. Sam's inside quake a little...Dean leaving blood trails? The fact that blood even got on the floor or wall is testimony to how bad Dean must be doing.

He picks up his pace and arrives at Dean's door and walks in without preamble. It's empty. The only evidence of his brother is his shirt and jacket left messily in the floor. He kneels silent beside the clothes...they're bloody, like really bloody. And it's not just on the clothes, it's smeared along the floor with a gruesome trail leading to the bathroom. Sam gathers the tattered clothes into his arms and walks towards the bathroom.

He places a hand on the door and tries to push it open only to feel resistance from something on the other side. "Dean?" He asks, "Dean, are you in there?" He knocks, and then pushes quickly realizing the object blocking his entrance is soft but solid like a...person.

"Dean?" He asks, and pushes a little harder getting the door a little more open. "Are you in there? Dean? Can you let me in?"

All he hears is silence but he can see the vanity. Its a messy work of blood and vomit, and he can see in the mirror; if Dean is standing he's not in the small bathroom. "Dean," he calls again, "Can you hear me?"

Again there is no answer so, Sam afraid of hurting his brother further pushes the door a little more open and slips into the cramp bathroom, door shutting behind him.

He immediately sees his brother still, on the floor and adds the amount of blood on the floor to the total he saw outside, too much. He's on his knees beside Dean and flipping him over and into his arms in a moment. Dean gives no response, his head flopping to rest in the crook of Sam's elbow, his cheek burning against Sam's arm.

Sam sees his arm right away, grimacing as the blood still oozes from the clotting wounds. The middle cut, the deepest was already ugly, a puffy red creating a perimeter around it. That was probably where Dean's temperature was coming from. Next his attention is drawn to the blood-soaked t-shirt. He grips the edge and gently draws it up.

"Oh my god," he whispers, as Dean's wounds come into sight. His hand hovers over them, not willing to touch and cause pain. He can't imagine the agony that had to come hand in hand with these ragged cuts. He thanks God silently that these don't look inflamed or infected, but he knows they need to be cleaned and sewn up quickly or else they will grow septic.

"Dean?" He asks, in a hushed voice, tapping gently on his pale, sweaty face. "Dean, can you come back to me buddy?" He gets no reaction.

And suddenly a terrible thought comes to him. Sure Dean's still hot but that doesn't mean anything. Is his brother gone? Is Sam JUST too late? So he quickly places two fingers over Dean's pulse point, holding his breath. He feels it, fast, but strong. He lets out his breath. And closes his eyes letting the relief wash over him, letting himself bathe in the glory of Dean being alive.

What to do first, he thinks. He can feel the alarming amount of heat pouring off his brother and is sure it's the arm wound that is infected and not one of the more extensive lacerations on his torso. He wants to stop the sluggish bleeding but knows once he puts in stitches there's no going back...no getting wet...no bringing down the high temperature.

So he unbuttons Dean's pants and pulls the zipper down and strips the jeans off, and untangles Dean from his t-shirt. "Alright, Dean let's take a shower," he says and wraps an arm around his brother's shoulders and then slips the other under his knees. And god, Dean is heavy...but way hotter. So Sam makes it to his feet and somehow gets them over to the shower stall. There he goes to his knees and pulls Dean chest to chest with him so that he's on his knees too, slumped into Sam.

Dean's not shivering or even trembling, his skin is hot and dry and when Sam opens his eyelids it's all white. Sam keeps an arm wrapped around his back and uses the other to hurriedly guide Dean's head to his shoulder. But as Sam shifts them to turn on the water Dean's lips move against his collarbone and he let's out a breathy moan. Sam gently places a hand on the back of his head.

"It's okay, hold on Dean, we're gonna get you cooled down in just a sec." He soothes, as he feels Dean move ever so slightly against his body.

"S'mmmm," he mumbles out in a shallow breath.

"Hey Dean," Sam says, placing a hand on Dean's face. "You with me?"

"S'm?" Dean says again, this time with a lilted tone in question.

"Yeah," Sam assures, holding his head to his chest trying to get a look at Dean, he moves himself so Dean is no longer in his shadow.

Green eyes blink blearily at him until the bathroom light hits them. Dean whines deep in his throat and buries his face in the valley between Sam's pectoral muscles.

"Bright," he whispers into Sam's shirt.

"Sorry buddy," Sam returns, and manages to get his boots and socks off while supporting Dean.

"Wha 're we doin'?" Dean slurs, still hiding in Sam's chest.

"Gotta get your temperature down, cold shower for us, big brother."

Sam reaches up and turns on the cold water. He jumps involuntarily and so does Dean. He feels Dean shift against him, his fists come to clench in Sam's t-shirt.

"S'm," Dean moans out, pushing his forehead into Sam's chest in discomfort.

"What is it, Dean?" Sam asks, "Where're ya hurting, are you with me?" He ducks his head to try and get a look in his brother's face where Dean is doing his best to hide it Sam's shirt.

"C, c'ld S'm," he stutters out, beginning to shake violently.

"I know brother," he soothes as he positions Dean more comfortably and guides his head to rest on Sam's shoulder, hiding his facing in his neck.

Dean clenches Sam's sleeve like its a lifeline. "S'm...warm," he nearly hums.

Sam laughs fondly and pulls him closer, "Stay with me Dean, I'll keep you warm."

Dean grows quiet after that, his body clearly in conflict over the cold on its outside and the raging heat inside. After a couple of minutes Sam's having trouble controlling his chattering teeth and Dean is shivering violently in his arms, and his eyes are flickering wildly under his eyelids.

"Okay," Sam stutters out through his own shivers, "Let's end the torture." He reaches up and turns off the water. Dean gives him the first reaction he's got in the last few minutes. As Sam shifts them his brother groans and tries to pull Sam closer to him and hold him still. The movement obviously causing him a lot of pain.

"I'm sorry Dean," he whispers, "But we gotta get out and to your bed, you still need stitching up."

Dean just snuggles in closer to Sam and holds on to him desperately. "Don' lea' me, S'mmy." He pleads and Sam's got a sick feeling that this is more the fever talking that Dean which means it's about ninety percent more honest.

"I'm not going anywhere Dean," he soothes, "We just got to get into something dry, and take care of your wounds."

"Wendigo," Dean mumbles into Sam's neck.

"I know," Sam assures softly as he gets his arms around Dean securely. He lifts up with a grunt and Dean moans.

"H'rts S'm," he mumbles, as Sam stumbles out of the shower and over his own boots.

And wow, Dean must be really out of it to be acknowledging pain left and right AND giving absolutely no objection to being carried to his bed. Sam slides through the slender bathroom door and into Dean's room. He walks to the bed and gently places Dean down. Almost too nervous to break contact with Dean afraid.

Sam detaches them one body part at a time until Dean's quietly laying all by himself on the bed. Sam sighs in relief and takes a careful step backwards. He's off in a heartbeat, running to the kitchen where they keep the most extensively stocked first aide kit. He then runs to his room where he grabs dry clothes and his blankets. He's back in Dean's room in record timing.

As he steps into the the room the first thing he notices is Dean is not in bed. Then in relief he spots him on the floor fumbling through his coat pockets. Sam places the stuff on the bed and then kneels beside his dripping brother.

"Dean," he says softly, placing a hand on his arm.

Dean jumps, and tries to pull his arm away, "Need to call S'mmy," he mumbles to himself without looking up.

"Dean, it's me," Sam insists, hooking a crooked finger under Dean's chin and pulling his face towards him. Dean's wide pupils try to focus on him, he sways a little where he's squatting and leaning on his arms.

"S'mmy?" He asks, squinting up at him.

"Yeah, it's me." Sam returns, trying to get him to rise and get back in bed but Dean pulls away from him.

"But I didn' get the phone, S'mmy," he mumbles, puzzled.

"I came back," Sam says, finally pulling him up onto his shaky legs and holding onto him as they make their way back to Dean's bed. "I found some blood in the impala so I came back."

Dean lays back wincing, his eyes are wide, the whites red, and his body is shaking. Sam is really hoping its from cold and not from shock, his hopes are destroyed when Dean goes a little more white.

"S'm!" He rasps out, "M' side, I s'bleeding I..." His eyes close and a groan escapes from his throat as his clumsy hand drifts over his torn side. Sam jerks his hand away, watching for the bleeding to start again. He knows Dean can't afford to lose much more blood without going to the hospital.

"Dean," Sam soothes, "Stay still okay? You're gonna hurt yourself more. Let me take care of it, okay?"

"S'm," Dean grunts out, unconsciously pushing the side of his face into his pillow, fighting against the pain. "S'mmy y'still mad?"

"No," Sam shakes his head, he runs a towel down Dean's body drying up the dampness. "No, you scared me, is all Dean." And Sam doesn't know if the incident with the Wendigo or finding him on the bathroom floor scared him more.

To silence these thoughts Sam busies himself with his brother. His skin is hot again, but not alarmingly so. Dean's sweating again, and soon there are droplets coating his chest, neck and face. Sam fills an IV bag with saline solution and antibiotics to the fight against the infection, and also some pain medication, though not too much. He needs to be able to keep track of his brother's vitals as he sews him up.

He swipes Dean's skin with an alcohol wipe, and expertly slips the IV needle into Dean's arm and vein. He tapes it down, having fought enough battles with a delirious Dean over IV needles to know he would never willingly keep one in.

Dean watches him, eyes blinking lethargically, and gazes at his hand in amazement when Sam places it back by his side. Sam hangs the bag on the handle of the drawer in Dean's bedside table. Dean watches as he lays out sutures and bandages.

"Gonna sew m'up S'm?" He asks, in a slurred voice.

Sam can't help but chuckle at the bizarreness of their lives. "Yeah, Imma get you fixed up, Dean." He assures, and pulls the chair from the desk over. He grabs up a needle, "You know the drill, keep still."

Dean just blinks at him, but jerks when Sam's fingers barely ghost over the ripped open skin. "Sh," Sam soothes, as he brings the skin back together with his finger tips so he can begin his work. Dean is twitching and shivering, his fingers clenching and releasing and Sam is concerned the most about shock. Worried that Dean's mind will lose its hold on reality and him and succumb to the shivering, quivering mass of nerves the rest of his body is. He quickly brings the blankets up to his waist and wraps the one he brought from his room around his chest, neck and arms.

He heaves a big breath and releases it calmly, pushing the needle through Dean's skin in the first stitch. Dean's breath heaves, and his stomach hollows out as it sticks in his throat. Sam spreads a big, warm hand over his chest under the blanket, and presses down gently encouraging Dean let go of the air and to take another lungful of life.

"C'mon and breathe deep for Dean, that's it." He mummers comfortingly.

He lets it out and takes another big, shallow breath, his eyes searching for Sam desperately, big glossy green gems pleading for an escape, begging him to stop. Sam swallows over the lump in his throat.

He reaches into the first aide kit and prepares a syringe of relaxant. He shoots it gently into Dean's bicep, all the while all too aware of the big eyes watching him. He waits a few moments for the taunt muscles under Dean's skin to relax and then he pulls the thread through, and starts another one his eyes already burning in the not so ideal light...

By the time Sam is done with the two first tears in Dean's side his back is aching. His fingers seek out Dean's wrist every few minutes, and then rubs down his hand and pulls his clenched fist loose giving it a gentle squeeze. In between cuts he reaches up and wipes the sweat from Dean's clammy skin. He's nearly crying himself when he thumbs tears from under Dean's glassy, fever bright eyes.

God, why does everything have to be so hard for them? He wonders, as Dean shifts under him as he pulls the needle through, as he groans when Sam pulls it tight. And he's very nearly angry with Dean again, but then...if only he'd been ready, none of this would have happened. He'd been too cocky, too sure Dean would get the thing in his first shot. He grits his teeth as he forces himself to take his time and efficiently stitch his brother up...causing him that much more pain in the process.

And Sam knows from experience that relaxant is for the surgeon not for the patient. Dean is feeling all that pain right now, and Sam feels like shit. He's got three stitches left when Dean seems to break.

A whine rises in his throat causing Sam to look at him quickly, sweat shimmers all over his skin, his fingers clenching in the sheets. His pupils go way wide, and Sam swears he feels his temperature go up it happens so fast.

Sam has never finished something so fast. Dean is watching him suspiciously with eyes flickering under his hooded lids, and it's breaking Sam's heart.

"Plz S'm," he whispers, finally at the end as Sam ties off the last knot. "Plz stop," he whispers airily exhaling.

And Sam has never thanked God so fervently. Dean asked him right when he is done and he can give him that, give him that relief. His hand rubs soothingly over the flat unmarred side of his stomach up to gently cup his face.

"It's alright Dean," he says, running long fingers through Dean's sweaty hair. "We're done." For now. Dean's eyes close as Sam's fingers graze over his scalp. Sam uses the short respite of Dean's nerve wracking fever gaze to tape gauze over the now neatly stitched wounds.

No amount of neat stitching could conceal the ragged edges if the cuts. The zigs and zags that were testimony to skin being ripped from skin by sheer force. Sam swallows back the urge to throw up as he covers up the scary proof to how close he came to losing his brother.

Sam is just about in tears as he determines only the middle, deep, angry red cut on Dean's arm needs stitching. He pours anti-septic over all three wounds. Dean hisses, watching the reddish white bubbles foam up, he gives Sam a nearly coherent dirty look as he wipes it away and pours afresh. Sam repeats the process until there is no reaction from the wound.

Dean lays limp through the fifteen tiny stitches being sown into his arm. His eyes staying unerringly on Sam the whole time. Sam watches as gentle, shaking fingers reach out to touch him hesitantly only the pull back. Sam glances at his face and Dean finally looks away avoiding him, a confused hurt look on his face.

Sam sighs wondering what is going on in Dean's fevered mind and wraps a bandage around Dean's entire forearm, ripping the end piece down the middle and tying it securely. He sighs deeply, thank you God that's done. Dean eyes his arm, and then lays back with a sigh of his own.

Sam knows from the heat radiating from his brother that the fever has yet to break, which meant that it was going to get higher. He placed a hand on Dean's arm above the bandage and rubbed the skin there with his thumb, he grabs his hand and gently pulls the fingers open from their fisted state.

"Dean?" He asks, in hushed tones. "You with me? How you feeling?"

Dean turns his head on the pillow towards Sam, blinking at him. His eyes flicker to something beyond Sam's shoulder, Sam jerks around scared, for a moment. His shoulders slump forward in relief when he realizes nothing is there. He watches, holding Dean's hand as he chases things around the room with his fever eyes.

He is so relieved to see him alive and safe, touching his warm (burning) skin, feeling the pulse sending blood pumping through his veins while he grips his sweaty hand. Sam feels the tears run down his cheeks and all he can do is press the back of Dean's hand against his mouth to keep the sobs in.

"S'm," Dean mumbles, beside him. And Sam jumps, and gently wipes his tears off the back of Dean's hand on the blanket.

"Dean, you with me?" As far as he knew Dean was still awake.

"S'mmy..." He grits out a bit louder and Sam stand and leans over him.

"Dean? You with me?" Sam's heart stands still as he places a hand on Dean's hot dry forehead, it's so hot he feels as if it's burning him. Dean's eyes are closed but Sam can see them flickering underneath the lids. He shakes him, "Dean?"

Dean is limp under Sam's hands, skin dry and hot, hands trembling rapidly. Sam strips the thin sheet off the bed and soaks it in cold water in the shower. He wrings it out and brings it back, stripping the blankets off Dean and laying the cold sheet on him. Dean gives no reaction, except for his breath catching in his chest, and soon the sound of shallow, painful breaths fill the room.

"Dean, you need to calm down," Sam says, trying to keep his voice even. Dean is still, except for the bowing of his back as he struggles to breath. "Dean!" He shouts, shaking him by both shoulders.

Sam watches in horror as his brother seizes before him and there is nothing he can do. Lips are turning blue, fingers are clenched tightly, Sam's heart is breaking to pieces. He gives a savage slap to Dean's cheek...

"Dean!"

tbc...

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	3. Chapter 3

This is the last chapter, hope y'all enjoyed it!

Chapter 3.

Dean's eyes are shut, he's squatted down in the midst of the ferns growing underneath the towering pine trees. One knee supports him on the pine needle covered ground, one hand rests there, the other grasps a loaded, extra strength flare gun held low and against his body.

His head bows in concentration; Dean hears everything...the birds and insects, or lack thereof, the wind ghosting through tree boughs and ferns...an eery wailing roar, footsteps thundering into the earth. Sam.

Dean is on his feet and racing through the ferns in a millisecond. His calm appearance thrown to the wind, calmness and mediation used for their purpose...find Sam. Now is the time for action. He races a relentless straight line in the direction he's chosen.

"Sam!" He yells into the silent woods that are falling prey to dusk. He runs on, breaths pushing through his lungs burning with the cold air.

"Dean!" It's a shout repeated back to him amidst the proud trunks of the pine trees with a tone of relief and hope. Dean's heart aches at the fear and loneliness it also implies.

"I'm coming, Sam!" He yells, pushing himself harder through the darkening woods.

It's at this moment he feels the chilly wind breeze over the side of his face. The supernatural terror whizzes part him so fast his human eye can't pick it up. It's racing in front of him towards...Sam.

"Sam!" He screams, pushing himself to his absolute limits, "Sam watch out!"

He hears the Wendigo's savage roar followed by a softer yell.

Dean's heart stops, the sun disappears, the moon raises her elegant head, he breaks through the ferns into a clearing.

Dean slides to his knees by his brother's prone figure. It only takes a second to observe the gaping throat wound, the beautiful hazel, glassy eyes staring into oblivion, the thread of velvet that seeps from his baby brother's lips and runs down his chin...it only takes a second but to Dean it fills his eternity as he gathers Sammy close to him in his arms.

His brother is already gone. No goodbyes, no honest words, no loving glances, no touches or embraces to remember him by...just blood. The blood that covers Dean's hands crimson and reminds him of his soul deep guilt.

He lifts burning eyes to stare at the creature before him as tears cascade freely down his face to fall to Sam's. The Wendigo seems to know what it's done, it stands and watches just across from Sam's body as the agony rips through Dean.

"You killed him!" He screams at it, and the grief breaks from his throat as he buries his face in Sam's hair to hide the rest of the uncontrollable sobs. "You killed him!" He repeats, voice cracking from his tears and intense volume. He grips the flare gun and chunks it at the Wendigo as hard as he can.

The gun hits the beast squarely in the stomach and falls to the forest floor. The Wendigo looks slowly from the gun on the floor to Dean, slumped over his baby brother's corpse, staring at it with red, predator eyes of his own. It turns away from Dean.

Dean watches through tear blurred eyes as the Wendigo departs.

"Kill me you bastard!" He screams at it. Please, kill me, he thinks as he looks down into his little brother's white face. Don't leave me, Sammy, he pleads. Don't go somewhere I can't be with you. He can't do this without Sam, he doesn't want to do this without Sam. He needs his little brother, he needs Sam, he's his heart, his conscience...his purpose. He would gladly go with him, he couldn't live with the guilt that he'd gotten separated from Sam, hadn't been there to have his back

...had let him die alone.

The Wendigo turns back and stares at him. Dean sees the lift in the grey lips, the intelligence in its eyes. Its knowledge that this man would be in more pain to live than to die, it wouldn't put this man out of his misery. He turns again and is gone in a breath of wind.

Dean is left alone in the clearing grasping the body close to him, feeling the warmth leave the blood still seeping into his clothes and coating his skin. The moon is looking down on the two brothers like a queen, the stars are her twinkling subjects. Dean listens as crickets start up their chirping lullaby, a coyote wails somewhere over the hills, an owl hoots it's welcome to the night. The world puts Sam Winchester to sleep.

The breath is stuck in Dean's lungs, the weight lying on his chest like a mountain. He gasps huge, shallow, sobbing breaths, a hand on the chilling face as he tries to memorize the beloved features.

"Sam," he whispers, gasping, "I'm sorry, Sammy, so sorry..."

Sam's eye open. And Dean jerks away in shock. He sits up and looks down on Dean's horrified face. He is white in the pale moonlight, he blinks coldly at Dean.

"You let me die," he says, frozen tears sparkling in his eyes and on his pale cheeks, "You killed me!" He hisses as his eyes glow a warm yellow.

"No," Dean whispers.

"YOU KILLED ME!" Sam yells and leans into Dean's space, "You will be alone," he whispers as he backhands Dean across the face...

...

Sam hits Dean so hard his hand ricochets off his cheek and Dean's head is brutally knocked to the other side of the pillow. Sam tries to shake the burning sting from his palm as he steps back, hands gripping in his hair, instinct telling him WHEN HITTING DEAN, GET AWAY IMMEDIATELY.

Dean's stiff, fevered body arcs off the bed as he gasps in a huge breath through blue lips, causing painful coughs to wrack through his body. His green eyes fly open, they immediately seek out Sam. Looking for the fortress in the storm, looking for something to hold onto, something to fight for.

Sam grabs his arm and presses a hand to his chest pushing him back towards the bed praying the stitches haven't torn. Dean grabs his wrist where it's just above his chest and holds it as he heaves quick, painful looking breaths. Sam tries to smile calmly.

"Hold still for me Dean," he says, "We don't wanna tear your stitches."

"S'mmy?" He asks, looking up blearily. He sounds insecure, hesitant, but sounds like he wants an answer to his question, sounds...like Dean.

Sam places a cool hand on his forehead and nearly cries with relief. Dean's temperature must have broken in the crisis of whatever the hell that episode had just been. "Yeah, it's me," he answers as he strips the cold sheet off his brother and pulls up one of the blankets to cover him.

"S'm? Is that really you?" He asks, still sounding uncertain, pupils still blown wide.

"Yeah, it's me," Sam assures, and runs fingers through Dean's sweaty hair.

"Are you alright?" He asks, almost desperately, his other hand coming to grasp Sam's forearm.

Sam had half expected this, "Yes, Dean, I'm fine, I'm good...especially now that you're doing better."

Dean's hand comes to cup Sam's cheek and he looks into his eyes as if gauging Sam's honesty. Dean finally looks down and away, trying to hide the tears glistening in his bloodshot eyes.

Sam covers Dean's hand with his and brings it down from his face and holds it tightly.

"We're both good, it's all good." Sam soothes, thinking maybe the fight before all this was still bothering Dean.

"It was just a dream then." He chokes out, a lot less certain than he wanted to sound. God, that fear, that failure he'd felt. So keen, so sharp...so real.

And suddenly he knows that's why he always throws himself in front of Sam and danger, sure it's to protect Sam, but also to avoid that fear, that sorrow more painful than any physical agony he's ever experienced. He understands Sam, finally. Knows what he goes through, knows what he feels and experiences when Dean sacrifices himself...

And he can never stop, some hurts are less damaging than others. Sam would survive fear and anger, he wouldn't survive having his throat torn out by a Wendigo.

"Hey," Sam whispers, thumbing the tears away from Dean's cheeks and leaning to rest his head on Dean's shoulder. "It's okay, Dean, it's okay now, I'm not mad anymore." He's rambling, but he just wants to assure Dean he's there and he loves him and he's not going anywhere.

He's alive, Dean thinks, grasping Sam's forearm tighter, fingers snaking into the mop of chestnut hair surrounding the face hidden in his shoulder. He's alive and safe with me, all is well.

But all is not well. Dean can't protect Sam against the panic and agony he's still recovering from. Can't protect him against the hell of losing his brother, god, Sam had already gone through that many times.

And that right there was the problem, they knew what it felt like, they knew the pain, the fear, the loneliness...they were willing to do ANYTHING to prevent THAT from happening. They knew what it was like to hold cold, limb corpses. They knew what it was like to bury a brother and walk away forever, they knew what it felt like to have a whole world before them and to care nothing for it because they were alone.

There was only one road for them, the road to each other. They didn't care where it lead, they didn't worry about heaven or hell afterwards, they followed each other down the same path. They took turns leading...they took turns falling. But in the brother's minds there was one road ahead of them...the road together.

It was easy to find, it was easy to follow with the directions etched on their hearts. They followed what they believed, they followed the love and loyalty in their hearts. And as long as they followed these things the road was clear, was shining, it was like a yellow brick road in their hearts right to each other...

Heaven knows it wasn't pretty, there was a price. The road wasn't easy, wasn't lined with flowers and bubbling brooks. The bricks weren't yellow...they were a deep velvety red, coated with the blood both of the innocent and the guilty, it was built on a foundation of broken promises and souls...it was the price paid to stay together. It was the road that brought them to each other.

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